


The Undivine Comedy

by trashmctrash



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Comedy, Confusion, Dehumanization, Gen, Horror, POV Outsider, Stand Up, im not funny but id like to pretend, kinda??, lowkey tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmctrash/pseuds/trashmctrash
Summary: Michael gives his shot at being a comedian





	The Undivine Comedy

**Author's Note:**

> so basically I made a post on tumblr and I wanted a fic around it

They were there to watch a stand up routine. It was a new comedian, their first show apparently. They had supposed there was no danger in going, they knew the venue and trusted them to pick a good act. And honestly, bad comedy sometimes is funny in hindsight. So they went, a night out just for them. And how glad they are that they didn’t take a friend along.

The performer was tall, at least 6’ 4”, maybe taller, he was gaunt and pale, though he moved with purpose and energy and his face was round and jolly. His hair was long and blonde, and he had. He had green eyes ... or were they blue? It’s hard to remember. 

He walked onto the stage, adjusted the mic to fit his tall frame, and spoke, “Well hey there everyone! What a pleasure it is seeing all of you here, I have a friend,” he pauses here, looking past all of us at the blank wall behind him, “well, acquaintance, who would just _love_ this. So attentive!” His voice was light and jovial, his caddance tilting. “Thank you all for coming, my name was Michael Shelley and I hope you all enjoy yourselves this evening.” 

He started his routine, “It’s funny how they call this an open mic night huh? I guess to fit in I’ll have to share a little.” He winked, and they could swear he looked directly at them. Their vision swam for a moment, short enough that they waved it off as nothing. But the man’s wide smile looked more sinister. “I’ll try my best to be an open Mike and tell you all a little story about myself. So the place I worked was an institution for the recording of the supernatural. Kinda dumb right? I mean, how _foolish_ it is to try to record and understand what cannot, and should not be known. _Knowing_ is overrated, I’ve always found it better to _feel_. Well, I was younger then, and different, still Michael back then.” He laughed, a cold thing, and they stared at his face, transfixed with something that was closer to fear than fascination. “Yes, I believed back then, I believed so adamantly. When I was a kid, I thought I had seen a monster, I had snuck into a library, because I was a fucking nerd.” The audience laughed, but they thought it sounded nervous, like they were all caught under the same spell they are. The man continued, “When Michael was a kid, he believed that libraries had different books at night than in the day, books that they didn’t let kids read. Which, obviously, is fake. You can get lost and find the hidden books anytime of the day. But Michael didn’t know that, I mean, he still believed that the statues of Jesus in Catholic churches would come to life and make them take his place if he swore in church. And no, I don’t know why he thought that. I think he was just a stupid kid and honestly to be fair to Michael? I also don’t know why they make those statues so scary looking?” They found it weird how the performer referred to himself in the third person, maybe he played too much Dungeons & Dragons, gods they wished that was them. 

Michael chuckled to himself and got back on track with his original story, “So anyways, Michael was in the library late at night, looking through the shelves. When there’s a noise from behind him. He turns.” He paused here, and they held their breath along with the rest of the audience. “And the librarian stands behind him.” The audience let out their breaths as the performer laughed. “Oh you should have seen your faces! Don’t worry, this is a comedic show, for now.” His grin was borderline manic, and they found themself wondering if he had braces, his teeth were so straight and white. Very un-British of him.  
He laughed a little more, “However not supernatural that encounter, Michael found that the rush of fear he felt that night was… exhilarating. That was prompted him, years later, to apply at the Magnus Institute I think. He was assigned to be an archival assistant, not the best position but choice? In this economy? Michael took what he could get, he had hoped he would be able to move up from his position but,” he shrugged, his body moved like its bones were misaligned, “that never really happens for millenials does it. To be fair to Jonah Magnus! They paid a fair wage, and Michael was content to work there. He had found a mother figure there, in his _boss_.” He mock-gasped, putting his hand up to his mouth theatrically, “Scandalous, I know.” His hand had too many bones in it, they can remember now. 

“She was the smartest woman, he knew, that I know. A cold woman, calculating, though Michael couldn’t see it at the time. Ironic, for someone working under the Eye.” He smiled, like it was an inside joke, bad stand-up etiquette. They laughed politely anyways. “Michael adored this woman, and I still quite admire her. She was decisive, which is a quality, I will be honest, that is extremely alluring in a mother-figure. She was just all around a very cool person, and Michael truly thought she cared for him like he cared for her. Which is why he agreed to go on a work-adjacent trip with her when she asked. And hey? Just a point of advice here? That’s never a good idea, they’re not even going to pay you for that time and honestly that’s just robbing you. Don’t fall for it like Michael did.” He looked in their eyes when he said that, they’re sure of it now.

“Anyways, long story short. She sold my soul to an eldritch horror of madness beyond human comprehension and well.” The man—thing—on the stage’s eyes began to glow a ghastly shade of lime green. His hands elongated, becoming thin blades, bones clear to see beneath the stretched skin. “You can say I’ve been spiraling ever since.” 

The audience screamed, and they think they did too. 

It was confusion after that, a cacophony of noises, lights, and bodies. People pushed past them to escape the _thing_ behind them, their panicked screaming combined with the laughter of the man, the thing that was Michael Shelley. They’re carried by the crowd closer to the exit. An open, yellow, door. Was it yellow before? It didn’t matter, they pushed past others to get out. To enter. 

They were there to watch a stand-up routine. The mirrors around them warp their image, or are they the one warping? It was a new comedian, their first show apparently. There are echoing screams, they can no longer tell if the noises are coming from their own mouth. Not sure if they even still have a mouth. They had supposed there was no danger in going, they knew the venue and trusted them to pick a good act. Each turn takes them to the same hallway, except now the door is gone. The mirror images are screaming, but their mouth does not move. And honestly, bad comedy sometimes is funny in hindsight. They’re too tired to run, but they must keep moving. The images in the mirrors are getting closer. So they went, a night out just for them. Their fingers press against the cool glass, their reflection stare back at them, laughing the same laugh as the man. Its teeth too white and straight to be theirs. And how glad they are that they didn’t take a friend along.


End file.
